He fucks you in the darkest part of midnight, rough and raw and needy and anachronistic, your kimono hanging loose off your shoulders, Muraki’s starched white shirt rumpled and soaked with blood from the girl he murdered hours ago. He’s still half-mad from the killing, drunk off his ability to take life, and you will never admit how turned on you are by that murderous gleam in the doctor’s eyes.

Sex doesn’t mean anything between you, never has, not even when Muraki had two good eyes and something resembling a human soul, back before he broke for good. It’s just a way to pass the time, make those insomniac nights go by a little less slowly. Muraki’s cold, pale hands are only eclipsed by the icy, indifferent look he gives you as you moan beneath him, louder than any of the whores you employ. There isn’t anything resembling love in the act, but that’s fine because Muraki’s love is a twisted parody of the emotion and you want nothing to do with it. You pity the poor soul Muraki’s set his eyes upon.

Keep telling yourself this, and maybe one time it’ll be true.

He’s gone almost as soon as he’s finished. Sometimes he’ll stay for awhile, tell you about what fucked-up scheme has brought him to Kyoto this time, say your name in that deep velvet voice, Oriya, so smooth you want to fuck him all over again. Not tonight, though. Tonight, he’s hunting Shinigami. Tonight he slips from your grasp before you can even get a grip.

If I died before you did… even if you didn’t mean it… would you shed at least one tear for me?

His voice comes back to you in the dark, more vulnerable than anyone alive to remember has ever heard it. It’s the only time those glassy eyes of his have ever looked truly human, the only instant that he’s ever really been yours. It’s the memory that keeps you calling him ‘friend’ even after he’s forgotten what the word means. It’s the reason you’re sobbing into the silken sleeve of your kimono.

He’s already been dead for so long.

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